Boxed and Labeled
by MC Harper
Summary: Step into Bella's shoes as she fights her own inner demons. But, beware, there won't always be a sparkling vampire to save you.


_"__Stop being so selfish"_

_"__You're not even trying"_

_"__Why are you doing this to us?"_

_"__Haven't we done enough?"_

_"__Just get over it already"_

_"__Stop acting like you are trying"_

_"__Just try and it will be over already"_

_"__I'm better, why can't you just be already"_

_"__You ruined everything"_

_I jump from the kitchen table, knocking down the wooden bench, and run out the doors.. I don't care that there is snow and ice on the ground. I don't care that I am only in a pair of boxers and a wife beater. I don't care that my sister is running after me. I don't care that my mother is screaming for help, for someone to stop me. I don't care that my feet are now raw from the ice and gravel. I don't care. I just don't care. I must keep running. I must get out. I must be free. _

I clasp my lips shut when I feel my eyes start to burn. I refuse to have tears in my mouth; because tears contain salt, salt contains sodium, sodium causes water retention, water retention causes bloating, bloating causes the appearance of a fat belly and that would just not be acceptable. Closing my left eye and then my right, I will for what little eyelashes I have left to grow a foot. I lift my free hand and brush it against my lashes. When I bring my fingers down I feel with my thumb that there are three eyelashes on my index finger. I start to panic and begin to bargain with God that perhaps a foot was a bit outrageous, that I would be happy with an inch. An inch would be enough to catch a tear.

I'm not here. I am not here. I am doing sit ups on the cellar floor where we keep all of the safety supplies. I can feel the burning in my lower stomach. I can feel the throbbing pain of my spine crashing into the concrete over and over and over again. I can smell the gasoline from the gas tank not two feet from my head. I can hear my younger brother and his little league friend's footsteps banging against the ceiling as they run around upstairs.

I am not here. I must have only passed out again. This is only a nightmare. I am not wearing an off white, green dotted, backless gown. I don't have an I.V shoved and taped up my arm with fluid and what not being pumped into me like I am a car. I am not sitting at a table filled with girls whose bodies resemble toothpicks, Q-tips, bobble heads and olive oils. I don't have a container of hundred and twenty calories worth of plain cheerios floating in a hundred and fifty calories worth of whole milk on a red tray in front of me. And I definitely do not have a tear hanging from my top lip.

I look up to see if that fat nurse is watching me, and of course she is. I bet the only reason why these nurses want us to eat this crap they call food is because they want us to be as large as they are. The fat one, who is trying to stare me down, has to be at least two hundred pounds. The other nurse, the one with the cheap looking fake purple nails who is taking the other patient's vitals looks to be pushing two hundred and fifty.

The tear is still hanging on my top lip and I only have two options. I could lick it off and potentially cause my stomach to bloat or I could wipe it off with my hand and be seen as weak for crying. And seeing that neither of these options are of my liking I decided to create an option three.

I take that damn plastic spoon from my tray and fling it across the room. All of the nurses looked at it fly across the room and one, yet another fat nurse, had to drop to the ground to avoid it hitting her right in the eye. While everyone one was watching the spoon fly, I quickly wipe my hand against my lips, getting rid of all the salty weakness. I look up to see the nurse still ducked down on the floor; I know I should feel guilty for making her afraid, but I wasn't. I wish that the spoon took her eye out for trying to get me to eat this calorie loaded filth.

This moment scared me more then when my mother placed the bag of vomit on the table in her own dramatic way of telling me that "She Knew". This was the moment that I realized that I didn't care whether or not I hurt people. I didn't care that a nurse could have possible lost sight in one eye. Or that I could have harmed the girl whose vitals she was taking. All I cared about was not showing weakness or getting a bloated belly. This terrified me. This excited me.

When the nurse heaved herself off of the carpeted floor everything went back to how it was before. They still expected me to eat that damn cereal and milk, only this time with a warning of a feeding tube for bad behavior.

Needless to say that against every whisper and shout and threat in my head I shoveled those cheerios in my mouth one by one. Drank that damn full fat milk until the last drop too. I rather have the control of eating the food with my own hands that have it pumped into my stomach through a damn tube. At least with solid food my body can lose some of the calories through the digestion process or I can just find another way to get rid of it. With the feeding tube it's different. The calories are liquid and pumped directly in your stomach; this causes you to not burn calories through digestion and the tube can ripe your stomach and lungs if you try to purge. This is when the difficult decision comes into place.

Do you purge and perhaps die or do you become fat?

After breakfast all of the patients were herded back into their own rooms. It was no surprise that we were treated like cattle, being as though we were fed no better then them with food that only an animal would devour. My doctor came in and asked if she could possibly ask me some questions about my past, as if I had any choice in the matter. Rolling my eyes I say "Go for it", lean back on the bed and start to pick at my nails.

"Do you purge?"

_No I just enjoy vomiting my brains out after eating half a peach. It's the light of my life._

"Yes"

"How long have you been purging?"

_Probably shorter then you've been fat._

"Eight years"

"So you started when you were nine?"

_Wow doctor can do math. Can she fetch too? Fetch Fido Fetch!_

"Yes"

"Do you realize that purging is deadly?"

_This bitch as got to be kidding me_

"Yes"

"Do you self harm?"

_Does this woman not see the cuts on my arms? Do I need to wave them in her fucken face? Perhaps she will feel them across her cheek when I slap that damn know it all, sympathetic look off of her chipmunk cheeks. _

"Yes"

"How do you self harm"

_Okay, she can't be serious. This woman is supposed to be a doctor? Attention all hospital patients, children and adults! I have an announcement to make that I feel you all would want to hear. You, my fellow prisoners, are all screwed. Really just plan your funeral now and save your family the trouble of having to pick whether your favorite flower are roses or daisies. _

"Cutting"

"With what?"

And that was the moment where the last little bit of patience I had left flew straight out of the damn window.

"Are you fucken kidding me? What the hell do you think I cut my self with? It's not your collar bone! I cut with blades. You know, knifes, scissors, box cutters, all of those pretty pointy things! What the hell kind of question is that!"

I'm not breathing but my chest is heaving. My face is burning red with rage. My nails are clutching the thin, almost translucent, white sheets on the bed. And I can feel my softened teeth bend to the force of my clenched jaw. My eyes are wild.

I have always had anger issues. Perhaps a little to quick with my hands at some points in my life. But the rage I felt at this point could have caused me to attack this damn so called doctor. In my anger I would have felt no remorse or mercy. The doctor did the first wise thing since I first met her. And the only wise thing during my month long stay. She heaved herself up and left the room.

Hearing the door click sent me into a frenzy worse then a feeding shark. I punched the walls and kicked the hospital bed. I stomped and bite the tracking device that they put on the under aged patient's wrist, trying in vain to free myself. I scream bloody murder with my head smashed into the pillow. Saying every curse word in the English language and, thanks to my two immigrant friends, some in Polish. I am out of control. I am wild. I have snapped.


End file.
